Hunt
by ALetteredWoman
Summary: Each year, on the Winter Solstice, one person in New Berkshire dies a mysterious death. Sam and Dean investigate, only to find things taking a surreal turn. (Guys, so sorry, forgot to click the "complete" button!)


Dean was sure the incredibly strange, incredibly tall rusty metal sculpture of the antlered man had moved since they had visited earlier this morning. Surely its arms had been crossed, with the spear held by its side? Now the arms were spread, one arm pointing outward, the other, with the spear, held out in front. The abstract, sharp-planed deer head - elk head? - which had been looking out over the Weatherby's yard, toward the mountains and forests, was now pointed at the sidewalk. The one they were walking up. The red glass eyes glinted in the watery winter sunlight.

It was an eerie effect; he felt like the antlered man was looking directly at him, offering him the spear. He shivered. Then he nudged Sam.

"Dude. Has that statue...um...changed since we were here?"

Sam glanced at the statue and shrugged. "Hunh. Dunno; I wasn't paying attention. Looks like the Weatherbys are home now."

They had come here to New Berkshire because of the reports that once each year, near the winter solstice, locals would find an unexplained body; some of them seemed to have died of fright. Deputy Wilson had assured them, when they talked to him, that the people who died weren't exactly the most model citizens; for example, last year's body had been Jeff Parsons, a well-known local drug dealer they hadn't been able to get any evidence on. As far as Wilson was concerned, whatever or whoever was causing the deaths was actually doing the town a favor. He had looked a bit ashamed saying that, and hastily assured them that the local cops tried their best every year to find out what had happened. The coroner had ruled Parsons' death an accidental overdose of his own goods.

Then, given the weirdness of the story and the interest of the FBI, he had trotted out the inevitable "X-Files" comparison. Damn. Dean figured that with the reboot of the "X-Files" coming soon, they would soon get more of those tired questions when they investigated strange cases. Awesome.

They climbed the steps to the porch and Sam rang the doorbell. He looked back at the statue while they waited for an answer, and mused, "It sure is a weird piece of yard art, though. Looks like Cernunnos, the horned god."

"Whoever it is, it gives me the heebie jeebies." Dean glared suspiciously at the back of the sculpture.

"Well, he's a folklore researcher, so I guess we shouldn't be surprised his yard is decorated with lore-ish art."

The door opened, and a lean, greying man with a trim beard stood in the doorway. "Yes? Can I help you?"

"Dr. Weatherby? FBI. I'm agent Dean Kirke, this is my associate, agent Sam Howe; we're here to ask you a few questions."

Weatherby blinked, then gestured them in. "Come on in. What's this about?" He led them into a comfortably shabby living room, lined with filled bookcases. A dog with a greying muzzle, lying on an old plaid dog bed by the window, opened an eye at them, whuffed, and closed his eyes again, curling into a more comfortable position. Weatherby sat down in a ratty burgundy armchair, and said, "Sit down, sit! I saw you gents admiring my Cernunnos sculpture...isn't it grand?"

"Um. Grand, yeah, that was my thought exactly," Dean replied, a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice. Sam slid him a chiding glance. They sat down on the sofa.

"My wife did some landscaping for a sculptor friend of ours; he gave us that giant in return. It moves in the wind, takes on new positions. Always makes for interesting conversation!" Weatherby winked. Dean relaxed a little at such an ordinary explanation for the movement of the sculpture. "So what can I do for you?" Weatherby asked.

"Well..." Sam leaned back, stretching his legs out. "Deputy Wilson said you might be able to give us some history on New Berkshire. We're looking into the deaths of Jeff Parsons, Luanna Lackey, David Howell..." He named the three most recent midwinter deaths.

Weatherby's eyes lit up. "Ahah! Our yearly mysterious death! Isn't it fascinating? Did you know we've had one unexplained death every year in midwinter since the town was founded, back in 1758?"

Sam leaned forward, his grey-green eyes reflecting his interest. "Really? Deputy Wilson didn't mention it's been going on so long."

"Oh, yes. I'm sure it bugs the cops, and I'm also sure they kind of...ignore...that long history. But, yup, it's been going on that long. In fact, it's what got me interested in folklore and the history of the area." He got up, went to one of the bookcases, pulled out a book. He opened it, flipped through a few pages, nodded his head, and handed the book to Sam. "Here's a copy of the first recorded death." He pointed to one particular paragraph.

"'Master Goodsmith found Mistress Parsons lying in his yard the night after a wild storm; her eyes were round with terror and her shoes worn on the bottoms...'" Sam looked at Dean, pursed his lips. "Hunh. It says it's from a diary entry in 1758."

"That long...? Wow. Doesn't it...well...bug people hereabouts to know this has been happening for so long?" Dean raised an eyebrow at Weatherby, who laughed.

"Oh, it's just coincidence. Probably some type of genetic weakness that winter weather hits harder...if you look into the names, it's a few families mostly. I figure it's a heart condition. But, still, the stories get passed around by the kids, usually at campfires. Y'know, the kind of scare-yourself-silly stories kids tell each other. Anyway, that's my Ph.D. dissertation, tracing the story through the years."

"Coincidence..." Dean said slowly. "Yeah. You're right, I'm sure." But his look at Sam said different. Sam arched an eyebrow back at him. He closed the book and stood up.

"Well, thank you very much for the background, Mr. Weatherby. I was wondering...could I borrow this for a day or two?"

Weatherby waved his hand. "Sure, sure. Enjoy. It's kind of dry - academic writing, y'know."

Sam nodded, smiled. "I've read a lot of dry stuff in my business. I'm sure I'll find it interesting. Thank you for your time, Dr. Weatherby."

They shook hands, and Weatherby ushered them out. As they walked down the sidewalk to the Impala, Dean noticed that the sculpture had moved again, this time so its head, and the creepy red eyes, pointed at the front door.

"Well," he said abruptly. "So our monster has been hanging around for two hundred and fifty, sixty years. And the kids believe, but...what? Rationalize it away as they grow older?"

Sam sighed. "That's my guess." He pulled open the passenger door and got in. He shook the book lightly at Dean as he was getting in the other side. "Looks like I've found my reading for the day!"

"Yeah. Better you than me!" he snorted. He started up the car. "Lunch? There was a burger place downtown..."

"Sounds good."

* * *

Sam put the book down on the table with a sigh, pushing his long red-brown hair out of his face. He looked at Dean, who was stretched out on one of the motel room beds, hands laced behind his head. Dean glanced over at him.

"So? What's the word? Anything useful?"

"Nothing specific. One thing that stood out was that every single one of the documented deaths was of...well, they weren't the nicest folks in town. Alcoholics, abusers, embezzlers, thieves, rapists. Or, at least, that's what the town gossip said. Always with no formal arrests or convictions, but well-known to be pretty awful people."

Dean sat up, made a face. "So what you're saying is that our monster is some kind of vigilante...?" He laughed sourly. "Cleaning up the town, getting the bad guys who got away from the law?"

Sam thoughtfully rubbed his hand across his chin. He got up, opened the refrigerator, grabbed a beer. "Beer?"

"Yeah, I'll take one."

Sam got out another, handed it to his brother, and sat down again. He blew out a long breath. "But, yeah, that's sort of what I'm saying. And that, plus that Cernunnos sculpture, is giving me an idea." He turned around, opened his battered laptop, and began typing.

"Idea? Care to share?"

Sam waved an impatient hand. "I'm not sure; let me look some stuff up."

A few minutes later, he leaned back in the chair again and looked at Dean. "So, get this: Cernunnos...the Horned God...in some legends, he's the leader of the Wild Hunt - "

Dean gave him a quizzical look. "The 'Wild Hunt'? Sounds...wild."

"Well, in some versions of the Wild Hunt, they hunt whoever they run across. But in others, they hunt evil doers, bad people. The person can't escape, and just runs to death. Sound familiar?"

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "Hunh. Yeah."

Sam continued, "And...in a particular part of England, the guy who runs the Wild Hunt is - may be - a guy named Herne, and he hunts bad guys. Want to guess what part of England?"

Dean shook his head. "Don't do riddles, Sam, just tell me."

Sam grinned. "Berkshire."

Dean whistled quietly. "Berkshire. Like New Berkshire. So did this Cernunnos - Herne - get brought over by them, or did he just hitch a ride without anyone knowing?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Dean," Sam shrugged.

"So, what - we have this Wild Hunt going on here? And this Cernunnos, Herne dude - a god, eh? - is the guy in charge? Great. Yet another god. Any mentions of what kills old deer-head?" He took a sip of his beer. "Arrow? Silver bullet? Blood of his victim?"

Sam shrugged. "I can't find anything. And even if we do..." His voice trailed off.

"Even if we do...?" Dean prompted. Sam sighed.

"He may be one of the dies-and-is-resurrected-again gods. Nobody is quite sure." Dean quirked an eyebrow up in question. "Well, there are some old pagan gods that reportedly get killed each year and come back the next...has to do with the cycle of the seasons, stuff like that..."

Dean snorted. "Awesome. We don't know how to kill him, and even if we do, he may come back. And to top it all off, maybe we don't want to kill him, if he's ganking bad guys."

They looked at each other, saying nothing. Finally, Dean shrugged, finished off his beer, and said, "Well, shit. We'll figure it out. In the meantime...I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

* * *

At first he wasn't sure what woke him up. It was dark, and he could hear Sam snoring faintly. He could also hear the wind howling outside; a storm must be coming up.

Something rapped the door crisply, three times.

Dean sat up slowly, narrowing his eyes. He reached under his pillow for his gun, flipped the safety, and padded quietly to the motel room door. He looked out the peephole, but could see nothing; the lights outside seemed to be out. He edged the door open cautiously, gun at the ready behind it. The wind whirled in around the edge of the door and ruffled his short hair.

There was a huge shadow standing before him. Easily seven feet tall. There were antlers and glowing red eyes. And a spear.

Dean blinked.

He must be dreaming.

"Dean Winchester. You are welcome to the Hunt," a deep voice spoke.

Dean shut his eyes and leaned his head against the door.

"Yeah, right. Sure." It must have been the chili they had had for dinner.

"You are a Hunter. You hunt monsters. Dean Winchester, you are welcome to the Hunt," it repeated implacably.

"Dude. This is a dream. It's cold and windy out there, I've got a nice warm bed in here, and I need my sleep. So I'm just gonna turn around, close the door, head back to bed, and hope my next dream isn't as weird." He did just as he said, or began to, anyway. He had turned, and started closing the door, and a hand reached out, grabbed his forearm, and held it in an steely grip. He tried to shake the hand off, but it didn't move.

"Dean Winchester, you are welcome to the Hunt," the voice said a third time. "Come with us." The hand started pulling him out the door.

Dean dug his heels in, leaned back. "Whoa, whoa, there, chief! I'm not going anywhere with you! And even if I were planning to, I'd still need a coat and my shoes, dammit!"

The hand released him. "Dean Winchester, you may get your coat and shoes. And then you are welcome to the Hunt."

Dean was beginning to get irritated at this dream. "Listen. I'm not hunting anything. This is a dream, you're a figment of my imagination, and I'm going back to bed."

He turned around, started back to his bed.

Suddenly, instead of being in the motel room, he was out in the middle of the storm. At least he now had shoes and a coat on.

He was also sitting on a horse. A horse that was galloping through the air. He had a spear in his hand. Beside him was another horse, the giant shadow with the red eyes astride it, also carrying a spear.

The shadow turned its head, and the red eyes glared at him. "Dean Winchester. Tonight we Hunt. We Hunt Jonah McRae, who has been judged guilty of raping and killing four women in the past year." The shadow pointed forward with its spear. Dean looked around, and saw twelve other horses, with shadowy riders. Surging around the galloping hooves of those horses were white hounds with blood-red ears, coursing along soundlessly. When one of the hounds would put its head back, look like it was baying, the wind around them would howl particularly loudly.

Dean shut his eyes and shook his head. That must have been some damned bad chili, because this was a damned weird dream. He opened his eyes again, but determinedly did not look down.

His horse bunched its haunches beneath him, and it and the other horses angled downward to a small house on the edge of town. The horse landed with a lurch, and then they were galloping on the ground, straight toward the house. The wind went with them, before them, and slammed the door open.

A man in pajamas stood in the doorway, yawning and wiping sleep out of his eyes. Then he seemed to abruptly become aware of the horses, the hounds, the riders with their spears: his jaw dropped, and he stared, stunned.

The antlered shadow pulled its horse to a stop before the door, and its deep, echoing voice rang out, "Jonah McRae, you have been judged guilty of raping and murdering four women in the past year. Step forth and meet your judgment!"

The man turned pale, and he stammered, "What - what the fuck?! Who are you - what - what do you mean judged? What the fuck is going on here?"

The shadow nudged its horse one mincing step closer, and dipped its spear to point at McRae. "You may stand and be killed, or run and be killed. It makes little difference to us."

Dean raised a finger. "Uh. Just hold on a sec' there, Herne, dude. I'm not - "

The shadow turned to look at him. The red eyes glowed, and the spear dipped in his direction. He snapped his mouth shut.

The spear turned back to McRae, got closer. The man stood his ground for all of a second, then broke and started running. The noiseless hounds chased after, and then the horses.

It was surreal. The hounds were dashing along, the horses galloping wildly, but even so, they were never faster than McRae could run. He would look back in panic, dodge one way and another, but always, always, the horses and their shadowy riders were right behind him. He was panting now, and stumbling over roots and rocks, and sometimes, over his own feet. Every once in a while, he would come to a stop, lean over panting. One time he stood there and screamed fiercely at them, with a scowl of terror and defiance. Each time, the horses would slow, the riders would allow him to regain his breath, and then the spears would advance remorselessly until he broke again, fled.

He was stopping more and more frequently, and it took him longer and longer to halt the panting.

Then, one last time, he stopped, turned to face his hunters. He shook his fist at them, then suddenly he clutched his chest with a look of savage pain and shocked surprise on his face, sank to his knees, and then pitched down, face-forward, on the ground.

The antlered leader urged his horse forward, poked at him with his spear. McRae didn't move.

The leader backed his horse up, one step, then another. Then all the riders started cantering around in a circle, spears held up in triumph, the hounds dancing at their feet. The horses went faster and faster, the hounds following, swirling around, until Dean could not tell one from another. Then the horses were winged eagles, and the hounds were small hawks, and they spiraled up into the sky like leaves tossing in the wind.

Dean was left standing alone, in the cold and the wind.

* * *

"Yo, dude! Wake up! Up and at 'em!" It was Sam's voice, obnoxiously cheery.

Dean started and whirled around, but he was trapped in something smothering and warm. He struggled, panicking, until it slowly broke through to him that he was in bed, and the thing strangling him, smothering him, was his blanket. He yanked it off his head and stared up wildly at Sam. "Wha - wha - what the fuck, Sam!" He sputtered.

"Hey. You were sound asleep. Time to get up and face the day!" Sam was pulling on a clean t-shirt.

Dean rubbed the back of his head, then threw the blanket further off his body and sat up. He gave Sam a dazed look.

"You would not believe the weird dream I had, Sammy. Just...totally, fucking weird. I got sucked into the Wild Hunt, and we chased this poor slob to death, and..." He drew in a long, shuddering breath, and began to describe the dream in detail. Sam listened alertly, interested.

It was strange though: unlike most dreams, the details didn't fade away and become difficult to retrieve. He remembered everything - the horses snorting, one hound that had a notch in his ear, the hoarse scream McRae had flung at them, the way the horses and hounds had shifted into birds and flown away - it was all still there.

Sam had pulled over a chair and sat down while he described the dream, and when Dean finished, he was quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Finally, he said, "I dunno, Dean...that's pretty specific. And I don't remember mentioning the hounds at all. Or the variations that say they turn into birds at the end."

They looked at each other.

"So...maybe we should just go check out this McRae guy?" Dean asked slowly.

Sam nodded, his lips folded in a grim line.

* * *

When they peered into Deputy Wilson's office, he was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, shoulders slumped.

Sam knocked at the door frame, and Wilson started, lifted his head, sat up straight. "Hunh. Figures you guys would be here..."

Dean raised enquiring eyebrows. Wilson sighed. "Hey, guess what? We've got our yearly mystery death. Happened last night. A guy named Jonah McRae, guy from out of town who showed up a few months ago, was renting a house on the edge of town."

Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

Wilson continued, "Just for shits and giggles, I ran his details through the national database...and came up with an outstanding warrant for his detention for questioning about four women's deaths, scattered around the state, all within the last year. Anyway, someone found him by the side of a road out in the forest...died of a heart attack, looks like. Dunno what he was doing, way out there in the middle of the night, but it couldn't have been anything good. Couldn't have happened to a better guy." Wilson scrubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, then shrugged. "So there ya have it. Another weird midwinter death, probably natural."

"Well, okay, then, deputy," Sam said. "Since it sounds like you're busy, we won't bother you right now. It wasn't anything important anyway."

Wilson nodded wearily, waved them out.

Neither of them said a word as they strode out of the station and got into the Impala. They stayed quiet during the ride back to the motel. Dean caught himself flexing his hands nervously on the steering wheel as he drove; he stopped it by sheer force of will. Instead, he started clenching and unclenching his jaw rhythmically, which wasn't much better.

He pulled Baby to a stop in the parking slot in front of their motel room, and just sat there. Sam sat, too, not getting out of the car. Finally:

"What do we do now?" Dean asked, staring sightlessly out the windshield. "Sounds like it all really happened."

Sam sighed and leaned his head on the back of the seat, looking up at the roof of the car. "Dunno, man. We're back where we were last night: we don't know how to kill him, and we don't know if killing him will stick..."

"Yeah..." Dean muttered. "Son of a bitch! And it sounds like this McRae dude was a real piece of shit..."

Sam shifted uneasily. "I'm really uncomfortable with the judge-jury-and-executioner thing. But it's not like we have to worry for another year...right?" His voice trailed off.

"Right..." Dean slowly agreed.

"So..." Sam sat up and looked at his brother. "We take our time, do some research, see if we can't figure out how to kill him dead, and come back next year...?"

"Hunh," Dean said noncommittally. Then he shook his head, seemed to come back to the present, and started the car up again. "Breakfast?" he asked.


End file.
